


You Brought an Elfling to Slay a Dragon?

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Authority (Not Elrindir), Angst, Crying, Drunk Thranduil, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff, Grandchildren, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Movie 1: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, Mpreg, Parent Elrond, Party King Thranduil, Protective Elrond, Running Away, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 12:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18739102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: In which the company discovers, after narrowly escaping Goblin Town with their lives, that they have a stowaway and Lindir is absolutely beside himself at having failed his lord.





	You Brought an Elfling to Slay a Dragon?

The last few weeks have been…difficult, to say the least.

As Lindir’s due date draws ever nearer, it seems as if his lord is more than content to consign his songbird to the bed, granting him leave for naught but the least strenuous of activities and those that were of bodily necessity. And while some part of him revels in his love’s undivided attention, it is a tiny voice in the deepest recesses of his mind that is often overcome by the louder, more rational voice that reminds him that it is his duty to serve his lord, not the other way around.

It brings him a great deal of stress, knowing that, in his current condition, he cannot serve his lord as he ought. Though Elrond is quick to remind him that the new life he is bringing into the world is the greatest service that Lindir could ever provide him, Lindir cannot help but worry that his condition is placing a heavy burden upon Elrond’s shoulders. The stress is harmful for the baby, and means that healers are constantly streaming in and out of Lord Elrond’s bedchambers, administering a plethora of herbs and tonics that force him to sleep for hours on end. On the rare occasion he is awake, his mind is fuzzy, and he finds it difficult to focus on any one thing for longer than a few minutes at a time.

With that said, Elrond is not an unkind lover. He does his best to provide miniscule tasks that Lindir can perform from the safety of the bed, to try and ensure that the aid still feels useful despite his condition. Today, it seems, that task is babysitting. When Lindir awakes from his midday nap, he finds that he is not alone in the bed—Lord Elrond’s granddaughter, Erendriel, sits beside him, the tiny elfling propped up with what seems to be every pillow in the house. There are papers sprawled across her lap, and she appears to be drawing… _something_. All Lindir is able to make out is the bright mish-mosh of color splattered across the page…and her once _white_ tunic…and her arms…he doesn’t dare look at the bed linens, for fear he might faint.

Erendriel turns to him, and Lindir is reminded of why none of Lord Elrond’s attendants are overly-anxious for a chance to babysit the young lady…he doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen the elfling smile, save for in the company of her immediate family (and that one, truly terrifying occasion where she’d convinced a drunken Thranduil to let her braid his hair simply by batting her long, ebony lashes and calling him ‘pretty’). Just last week, she had two maids crying after they’d dared wash a doll that Elladan and Elrohir had bought from an artisan in Laketown. It was a solider, bearing the armor of the Peredhel, that was meant to chase away the bad dreams while her fathers were away. The doll was not to be touched until their return, on pain of tantrum.

Lindir had heard the child’s screams all the way in the seclusion of Elrond’s bedchambers.

“Good afternoon, my lady.” Erendriel watches, silently, as he drags himself into a sitting position, the few pillows that weren’t keeping the elfling upright crammed between his lower back and the headboard to provide some semblance of comfort.

The elfling does not greet him. Instead, she turns back to her work, eyeing the bright bursts of color for a long moment before setting the paper down by the foot of the bed. Disentangling herself from the sea of blankets and pillows, she leaves multicolored handprints upon the bed as shimmies her way down to the floor. All of the color drains out of Lindir’s face. “You are hungry, yes?”

Dark brows pinch together in confusion, “Hungry?” As if on cue, his stomach gives off a mighty rumble that serves as answer enough.

She makes her way to the door, tracking paint absolutely _everywhere_ and Lindir can feel his anxiety mounting. Distantly, he knows that Elrond will not mind, that his lord loves each and everything his darling granddaughter does, no matter how seemingly destructive…but the part of him that craves neatness and order is winning out. “I will have the cooks prepare us something for lunch.”

The tiny elf-child returns a short while later, balancing much too much food for such a small frame. Lindir moves with surprising swiftness, considering that he has now crested his tenth month and often needs help rising from even the highest benches in his lord’s garden, and unloads some of her burden. There is a small table just to the side of Elrond’s desk, where he takes meals when he is wont to sup in private, and he arranges their little feast on its mahogany surface. Casting a brief glance in Erendriel’s direction, he thinks that the young elfling might be pouting. Wary of inciting one of her infamous tantrums, he offers her a gentle, albeit shaky smile—she is not looking at his face, however. She is staring at his stomach.

“Your stomach is very large.” She says suddenly, and Lindir winces. He knows that she does not mean it as cruelly as it sounds—even the healers have noted that his stomach is quite large for a first pregnancy, even with his naturally svelte frame. The idea that he could be carrying multiples has been brought up more than once.

“Yes.” He says, with a curt nod. He soothes a hand over the tremendous swell of his belly.

“The baby…Grandfather is very happy about it.” She continues, biting her bottom lip and staring pointedly at the ground.

Lindir nods once more, “I should hope that he is.” He can tell that there is something more that the elf-child wishes to say, but is holding back. “There are so few children in Imladris. Are you excited to have someone to play with?” He tries.

Erendriel is silent for a long moment, before she shakes her head. “It will be quite some time before the elfling is old enough to do much more than eat, sleep, and mess themselves.” She says softly. “You and Grandfather will have your hands full for many years to come.”

“Ah.” It is all Lindir can say. He is not sure what answer he was expecting, but certainly not one as…detached…as that.

Once the table is made, he gently takes the young elfling by the arm and leads her into the washroom, where he dutifully cleans the dried paint from her hands with soap and warm water. She is silent, blue eyes following the steady movement of his hands, and as he towels her hands dry he cannot help but wonder how a child so loved could be so _sad_. She is a blessing, and has been told thus from the day of her begetting—the first child born in Imladris in centuries, the first child born to the line of Peredhel in even longer. When they return to the table, they sup in silence. The food is good, the cook having remembered Lindir’s recent craving for blackberries and having made him a salad positively bursting with the small fruits and slathered in a rich vinaigrette. It tastes heavenly.

Erendriel stuffs a forkful of food, entirely too large to be proper, into her mouth. With great difficulty, she chews and ultimately swallows, though a thin trail of salvia and dressing spills from the corner of her mouth. It is then that she blurts out, “I’m going to run away.”

Lindir actually _chokes_. He feels a sharp stab of panic as he begins coughing, though he cannot tell if this is because of the choking or the sudden shock of his almost-granddaughter announcing her intent to run away. It takes him more than a few minutes to regain control of himself, and she slides a glass of water toward him mildly. “I’m afraid that I did not hear you correctly, my lady. I could’ve sworn-,”

“That I said I am going to run away? Yes, that would be because that is what I said.” She says softly. “I know that you are Grandfather’s hervenn, and his faithful aid besides, so asking you to lie to him on my behalf is out of the question. But I also know that your loyalty extends to all the Peredhel, and that you would rather risk banishment than chance disappointing _anyone_ …”

Lindir swallows hard, “Your loss…it would _devastate_ Lord Elrond, my lady. Not to mention your fathers, your aunt…”

Erendriel narrows her eyes at him, “It will not be long now until they have a new elfling to fawn over, and I will be naught but a memory.” She hisses, before shoving her plate forward and sliding off her chair, making a beeline for the bed. She pulls a small pack out from underneath it. “I’ve already packed, I just need distraction enough to sneak away with the next delegation.”

“You are a _child_.” Lindir tries again, his tone revealing his near-desperation. “The world beyond Imladris’ borders is far too unsafe…”

“I am not asking you for your permission.” Erendriel corrects. “I am asking for your _help_.”

The conversation is interrupted by a red-faced serving girl, who bursts into Lord Elrond’s bedchambers without so much as a knock to announce that one of the sentinels had caught sight of a company of dwarves making their way toward the house. She assures him that, under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t trouble him with this information, but Erestor is otherwise occupied and the other servants fit to receive their guests are more than a bit put-off by the fact that their newest arrivals are a gaggle of disgruntled dwarves, armed to the teeth. Erendriel’s face brightens at the news, and before Lindir can say a word, she is bursting through the door, almost knocking the poor maid over in her haste. Lindir, in his current state, hasn’t the slightest hope of being able to catch her.

“I…” with great difficulty, he rises to his feet and nods to the servant, before offering her a painfully translucent smile. “You needn’t worry. I will attend to our guests presently.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would like to see the story of Erendriel convincing drunk!Thranduil to let her braid his hair, drop a comment down below :)
> 
> Also, I'm steadily working my way through the first chapter of a Thorin/Thranduil Swan Princess AU because I really need Thranduil throwing a fit because Thorin claims to love him "because he's beautiful". I should have it posted either tonight or tomorrow.


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